


Dissonant

by Mytha



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anchor Angst, Angst, Antagonistic Pining, Belligerent Pining, Broken Bones, Catching Hurt Character as They Collapse, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Passing Out, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/pseuds/Mytha
Summary: Cassandra Pentaghast is going to be the death of her. What business does she have falling for this Chantry warrior while this supposed holy mark burns away her hand?





	Dissonant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asymptotical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asymptotical/gifts).



The mark is burning. The rift is closed. Herah Adaar sits in the shade of a large coniferous tree in the Hinterlands worrying at a worn band of beads - all that remains of her possessions from before. Before the Conclave. Before the Inquisition claimed her. A gift from a fellow merc when she had been a kid – Chantry type, but the tolerable sort. “I'll use it to count the dead,” she had announced to him. 

She is not a religious woman, but she trusts the slow methodical way these beads slip through her fingers. Their soft click is familiar, soothing. To focus on her good hand is to focus on her strength. To concentrate on the beads is to begin to shut out all else, all distractions. 

This is what she is trying to do this morning, after closing the first rift of their day, while her party is busy digging arrows out of demon cores or trees, doing magic crap or being entirely too distracting while cleaning ichor and blood from face, hair and parts of their armor that might work better without half of a possessed wolf's maw stuck in it. 

Cassandra Pentaghast is going to be the death of her. 

The love Herah feels for this woman so impossibly different from her has often rendered her speechless. The overwhelming feeling is so unexpected still – so unsuitable and at odds with her current predicament. It is dissonant happiness shooting through her at the most inappropriate times. In the fight earlier she found herself stopping to stare, mesmerized, watching Cassandra fight – so strong and graceful - until the terror demon burst out of the ground she had been recklessly idling on. 

As she cradles her aching arm – mark-sore after closing the rift and throbbing with magic that makes her contemplate hacking the haunted hand off – she is jolted out of her musings when a familiar strong hand grips her shoulder. 

“Dreaming again?” Cassandra's voice is full of concerned admonishment. Harsh, but with an underlying tone of feeling that Herah is unable to stop herself from responding to.

Herah flinches at the touch, feels warmth blossom in her stomach and sour to burning shame. A templar? A Seeker? Maker take _her_! Cassandra knows very well she is not praying. Not since she asked Herah about the beads at Haven. 

Herah had watched the Seeker's frown dissolve into open, delighted curiosity when she had assumed Harah was engaged in some Chantry ritual. “I don't believe in your Maker,” Herah had told her then and the Seekers face had closed like a book snapped shut.

“I'm fine,” Herah grumbles, shaking off Cassandra's hand. 

Listening to the Seeker's retreating steps Herah wraps the beads around her wrist again. 

\---

It is not right! Herah has watched Cassandra sacrifice herself – seen the terror throw the warrior's lifeless, mangled body at her feet. Now she is stuck with the reality of it while nobody else is. Well, that Tevinter toff is – not that he would care. Not like she does. 

After Redcliffe things have changed. They are all doomed and Herah knows it. It is only a matter of time until the reality of what is coming for them will inevitably catch up. She has known no peace of mind since their return. She worries at her beads, but they do not bring their usual relief. 

Herah cannot sleep, so at night she drags her mace to the training grounds and beyond. Everything is futile, but if she trains she might become strong enough to take out more of the unending flow of adversaries that stand, an uncountable horde, outside the walls of her imagination. Rocks crack, ice shatters, trees splinter and break as she loses track of herself and where she has gone. When she collapses in the snow, weary, spent, blood rushing in her ears, being alone is a blessing. The cold mountain winds make her mercifully numb. 

\---

Herah watches Cassandra arguing with the mage from afar. The Redcliffe mages have arrived in Haven now to help them close the breach and it has set people on edge. Arguing publicly will not help. She walks over to put an end to it, but arrives as it is over – without her help.

“It never ends, evidently,” Cassandra says, but her face sheds its severity as she glances up at Herah. 

Herah swallows bitterness and bites her tongue. She crosses her arms, nodding, waiting for Cassandra to get on with what she wants to say. 

Cassandra waits a little then huffs, accepting Herah's silence as her part in the conversation before going on. “I just don't know who told them I'm the one to yell at.”

“That bad?” The last thing they need in Haven is the distraction of dissent and distrust among their people. 

“It's not easy for the mages. They are accustomed to Circle life. At best they have been coddled – at worst they were kept prisoners or had to run. They are not prepared for this.” Cassandra is rambling. “It is your doing after all – you brought them to Haven.”

Hera's skin prickles with irritation. “You would have done differently, I suppose?”

“Oh, I do sound like I'm blaming you, don't I?” 

Cassandra's face is suddenly open, guileless, worried and Herah cannot stand the way her stomach drops at the sight of it. Her heart aches to hear Cassandra sound plaintive. To hear herself be complimented in apology is grating. 

Worse yet, the way Cassandra looks up at her now – so open, hurt – it only brings back moments she has longed to forget. Red crystals, red haze, Cassandra's voice ragged, hoarse, breaking with emotion. 

Herah has to stop this. “You asked if this will ever end?” Hera steps back. “It ends when we all die.“

“Herald - Herah!” When she turns to leave Cassandra's hand grasps her wrist, holding her back with considerable strength. 

“Let me go!” Hera growls, tearing her arm away with all the power she can muster. She feels the lines of beads tighten sharply across her wrist and hand before the old leather gives and beads are flung into the air, landing in the snow and mud between Cassandra and herself. 

When she turns and leaves this time Cassandra does not try to stop her. 

\---

The tunnels under Haven are a crypt. Doom and destruction have come for them as she knew they would. The Inquisition tried to be prepared, but who could have foreseen this? A dragon? 

She. Herah. She should have known. She heard the beast at Redcliffe, but all her focus had been wasted on her own feelings – her attention all on Cassandra. A mistake that has cost them so much. Cost her. Possibly even cost her Cassandra. 

With Haven buried Herah feels half dead herself. How has she come to care for all these people so much? They forced her into this role, but now she knows she would give her life to undo what has been done to them. 

Every step hurts and Herah is certain she has broken at least one rib, but walks on stoically. When the mark flashes sickly daylight within the cavern walls the hurt is so sudden and sharp it makes her scream. The mark reacting means demons, means a tear in the veil so she reaches for her mace instinctively – only to grasp at thin air. It was flung from her grasp even as she flung herself down the covered tunnel entrance running from Corypheus' dragon. Shit. 

She will not die a coward. She charges at the demons exploding from the rift ahead of her screaming and willing the mark to close the rift before more can come through. Instead there is a jolt and tug in her hand that she has not felt before. Strange power prickles, licks her hand like flames. Throwing it, like a spear she watches in amazement as the rift opens fully and the demons are ripped away as if caught in a whirlpool of white water, drawn back into the rift, dematerializing as it closes. The static of the rift disappears in an instant, as does it draws on her mark. What remains is only pain. 

In front of her the tunnel opens into a larger cavern and – an exit? Herah cradles her arm and pushes onward. 

\---

The snow white walls of storm make daylight seem like night. How long had she been unconscious after her fall? How long wandering in the caves? Herah counts steps as she has often counted beads. This time she does count the dead. 

There are burned embers in the snow only half-covered. Signs of people here not long ago. If it were not for this sign, the snow would erase any trace of life having passed through. Every time Herah thinks she cannot go on any longer, every time her chest constricts with pain, or her legs seem to drag invisible chains, another sign appears to push her onward. 

She reaches the crest of the mountain pass. Her face is numb, her hands almost immovable. The pain in her chest and arm are a distant noise within her, fading like life. She will seek shelter now and give in to sleep. 

As she takes another step there are voices echoing up from where the pass turns. “The Herald!” someone shouts. 

“Thank the Maker!” 

Cassandra! Herah takes a few steps towards the approaching shapes, but her legs give out at last. Stumbling she expects to fall onto the rocks and snow in front of her, but instead is caught. 

Metal crashes into metal as she sinks into Cassandra's arms. Herah is almost certain she feels the heat emanating from her. A spark of Cassandra’s warmth and an almost-happiness kindles life. She must survive! Then she knows no more. 

\---

It is well and good being sermonized by a well-meaning cleric while she is lying down, fed and under warm blankets, but no amount of singing will change the fact that the remains of the Inquisition lie in shambles - nor will it cure her broken ribs or bring her peace of mind. 

Herah is glad to be called away by Solas, the haughty elven mage. They are not friends – but at least he will not try and gloss over their hurt with Chantry songs. Besides, here he is with a plan – the promise of shelter – it is their only option now. Going back down the Frostbacks any other way will only lead them right back to the Red Templar forces and what else Corypheus has in store. There is no backing down. She must go with these people still – this is her path and she cannot leave it.

Back at camp she avoids the clusters of starry-eyed soldiers, pointing and whispering. Herah grunts in annoyance. Trust them to ascribe her stubborn will to survive to yet another act of the Maker. 

The night is very cold. She finds a log by a fire and sits down heavily, wincing at the pain the unadvised move sends through her chest, making her hiss. 

Rattling, armored steps come closer behind her. “Careful.” 

Cassandra's voice has that void-forsaken tone again. That warm, caring, tender tone that has the power to make Herah soar or despair. “What do you want?” she asks, a little more brusque than intended. 

Cassandra moves to sit down on the log next to her then hesitates as if reconsidering. “I meant to give you this before,” she says, digging in a pocket at her hip.

Herah watches patiently, mystified until it becomes evident that what Cassandra draws from her pocket is a long string of familiar worn dark wooden beads. 

“I am not sure I found them all,” she says with an apologetic glance, offering the beads to Herah. 

Herah accepts them feeling as if in a trance. “Thank you,” she says and runs the beads between her fingers before wrapping the string around her wrist. 

Cassandra is still waiting, standing beside her and so Herah motions her invitation to sit, which Cassandra does a little awkwardly. 

“I was sorry to have broken them.” Cassandra's voice is soft but sure. “You were angry. I did not want to leave things between us so – antagonistic.” 

“But we've often been antagonistic.” Herah finds herself say, taken aback at this revelation of feeling. 

Cassandra chokes back a laugh. “That is true,” she allows. “I was sorry regardless. They seemed important to you.” 

“They are a reminder of what was.” Herah touches them tenderly. “They tie me to the past, to who I was.” No, that is no longer the whole truth. “Now they remind me of what was lost – but they will also always remind me of what was not lost.” Herah hesitates before continuing. “And of you.”

Other people soon join the circle around the fire and so their conversation stops. As the space on the logs is taken up Cassandra moves closer to her, brushing her large hand and beaded wrist as she does.

Around them the Inquisition soldiers mourn the dead. Between them their hands are barely touching. Cassandra is so close it seems to Herah they are an entity apart from everything and everyone else. 

_Enough!_ She tells the pain of death and broken bones. 

Giving in to dissonant happiness, Herah soaks up Cassandra's heat like the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to amarmeme for the beta!


End file.
